The Day After
by juho69
Summary: Light at the end of the tunnel.


THE DAY AFTER

_I ought to explain that this story is the ninth in a sequence and should be read after Poor Danny, and before Washington And Beyond._

Martin woke at half past eight the next morning. As he came to, he remembered all that had happened the night before….Poor Danny.

He got up, showered, dressed and went into the kitchen to make breakfast. His mind continued to recall all the events of yesterday.

He just felt so, so sorry for Danny. Martin knew how it felt to be used by a woman – but, to be betrayed and lied to by someone Danny had cared for, protected and had given his life to, the hurt must be unimaginable. He was only glad that he was here and able to look after Danny when he needed him.

And yet, it was strange. Although he was supporting Danny and being strong for him, he felt Danny was strengthening him, too. In giving, he was receiving. Martin had to admit that he did not feel really close to anyone in his family – except his younger sister, Francesca. Men in his family were not into the "close" thing. Men in his family were not into physical displays of affection, either – yet, during the past few months, Martin had put his arms around Danny, ruffled his hair, let him cry into him, held his hand and hugged him. Martin would always be reticent about displaying his emotions – but he had come to realise that sometimes, in private, a man needed to, and it was all right. Danny was not a member of his family – but, Martin realised, he had become closer to him than any other man before. Danny's warmth, his sense of humour, his sparkiness, his lovable cheekiness – still apparent despite his grief – he was so very different to himself, his "reserved young English gentleman" – but their characters complemented one another and they connected. Danny had brought out the best in him. There was something about his friendship with Danny which enriched him in a way he had never known before.

So deep in thought was Martin that he barely heard the shuffling noise behind him. He turned round quickly.

Danny was standing there, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. His face was bruised and swollen. His eyes were puffed and reddened, to add to the grey rings which, at the moment, seemed to be almost carved beneath them. Martin's heart ached.

"Hi," he greeted him.

"Hi," Danny answered flatly.

"You okay?"

Danny didn't answer.

"I was just making some coffee," Martin continued pleasantly. "Would you like some?"

"Do you want me to leave?" Danny asked.

Martin stopped. He looked up.

"Leave? Where?"

"Here."

"Why should I want you to leave?" Martin asked gently.

"Well – after last night."

"No, of course I don't," Martin answered kindly. He looked at Danny fondly.

"Even after what I did?" Danny whimpered.

"I wouldn't be much of a friend if I did that. Don't worry, pal. We've all been there. And - " Martin hesitated a moment. "I think I'd've done the same if I'd just found out what you had."

Danny looked up suddenly.

"I saw the cards on the bar," Martin explained quietly. Danny looked pained. "Danny, I'm so sorry."

Danny shrugged. It was as if, after everything else that had gone wrong in his life, he had almost expected it. He sat down on the sofa.

"You can't imagine what's it's like – to find out someone you gave your life to has betrayed you. And yet – when I look back – it explains a lot of funny things."

Martin looked up. There was a different tone in Danny's voice. Of late, his once cheeky voice had been flat and expressionless. Today, for the first time in many weeks, Martin detected a hint of firmness.

"It's as though a huge weight's been lifted off my shoulders. I can leave everything behind now, and start again. All my life, I've had to look after other people and do what they want. Now, for the first time, I'm going to look after myself and do what I want to do."

He looked at Martin directly and determinedly. For the first time in many weeks, in those sad brown eyes, Martin could see a tiny light of hope. It filled him with a surge of happiness and he smiled warmly.

_It's getting better… _

Blue eyes met brown for a few moments; then, Martin turned back to the coffee. He poured out two mugs and handed one to Danny.

"Well – get this into you. I'll make some breakfast, and then I'm taking you out for the day."

Danny raised his eyebrows. "Where?"

Martin smiled. "Well - I think it's about time that Special Agent Taylor had revealed to him some of the art and culture this wonderful city has to offer. We'll go to the Metropolitan Museum this morning, have our lunch there – then go on to St. Patrick's Cathedral this afternoon."

Danny pulled a face. "Special Agent Taylor doesn't normally do art and culture."

Martin smiled again. "Well – there's no time like the present! If you pick your sections at the Met, you can just see what you want to see. You'd like The American Wing. Makes you proud to be American."

" '_God bless the U.S.A.!'_ Well, I might just be up for it, then," said Danny. "Hey – what about work?"

"No worries. Jack said we can take the day off."

Danny nodded gratefully. "Work…" Suddenly, he seemed to realise something. "Oh, my God. The girl…" He looked agitated.

Martin shook his head. "No, don't worry, it's okay. Jack texted me last night. They found her. Safe, luckily. She'd run away. She was in debt."

Danny looked concerned. "Poor girl." He was reminded of Clare Metcalf. "She must've thought she'd no-one to turn to."

He looked directly up at Martin, into those steady blue eyes which had been watching over him for the past two months. _I've always had you to turn to, brother_. The thought of Martin's kindness made Danny feel safe and strong. He knew how so, so lucky he was to have a friend like Martin.

They caught the Metro to the Metropolitan Museum of Art – or, "The Met", as it is familiarly known to New Yorkers. Entering through the Great Hall, Martin noticed Danny gazing up at the domed ceiling, like a child in awe and wonder. Which in a way he was, Martin reflected, as Danny had probably never had the money or chance to visit such museums and places in his childhood which he, Martin, had taken for granted.

First, Martin took Danny around the Arms and Armor Galleries; then, they looked through the adjacent American Wing, with all its examples of American domestic architecture and the twenty period rooms.

They had lunch in the American Wing Café, Danny enthusing about all he had seen and read. "I never realised there was so much here! I can't believe I've hardly ever visited."

Martin smiled. "Well, I'm pleased Special Agent Taylor enjoyed his first inroad into American culture. I'll bring you again. The next time Jack gives us a day off! There's so much to see that it would take a few weeks to do it justice."

"The Arms and Armor were fantastic!" Danny continued. "I never realised there were so many different kinds."

"I thought you'd enjoy those. It's always been one of my favourite sections."

"I really liked the English ones. The Greenwich Armor, wasn't it called?"

"Yes, that's right – the ones in the Bloomberg Armor Court. Gallery 371. It includes the suit that was made for their King Henry VII. The one he wore to fight France in 1544."

"How come you know so much about it?" Danny asked.

"My dad used to bring me here. Almost every Saturday. We'd go to a different gallery every week. He'd tell me all about the history and the exhibits. I loved it. I used to soak it up like a sponge. He was a really good teacher."

Danny looked interested. "How old were you?"

"Oh – about seven at the start. We stopped when I was fifteen."

"So?" asked Danny inquiringly.

Martin looked up.

"What happened?"

Martin looked quizzical.

"Why did you stop coming?"

Martin didn't answer. He looked down at his plate of food.

"What went wrong?"

Martin semi-shrugged.

Danny was thoughtful for a moment; then, he said,

"Well – it's not for me to say, pal – but, I think you should try and patch things up with your dad. Life's too short."

Martin looked up again. Danny's brown eyes were regarding him earnestly, almost as if they were saying, "Shouldn't you?" And he was right…But, Dad made things so difficult…

"So. Where're you taking me this afternoon?" continued Danny, changing the subject.

St. Patrick's Cathedral, with its Neo-Gothic style and two characteristic steeples, started to be built on the east side of Fifth Avenue in the year 1858 – but, the American Civil War and lack of money would delay its opening till 1879. The most significant religious landmark in New York, it had borne witness to many occasions of national importance, including the Requiem Masses for baseball player Babe Ruth and Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

The two friends reached St. Patrick's Cathedral around half-past two and walked up its steps through the huge bronze doors of the West Portal, displayed with figures of American Saints. As they entered the Cathedral, the vast expanse of the nave opened before them, the blue windows below the vaulted ceiling allowing light to strike the magnificent bronze baldachin over the high altar. It was a first impression of intense beauty.

Danny wanted them to stay together as they went round but Martin was insistent they walked around separately. Was that a glint in Martin's eye as they parted? Danny wondered.

Danny walked a little way down the nave and sat down on one of the chairs. He gazed up at the vaulted ceiling and shut his eyes, desiring to absorb the wondrous yet peaceful atmosphere. The muscles in his head and neck gradually relaxed, and it felt warm and comforting.

After a time, he opened his eyes. Looking around him, he could see all the side chapels and altars. He had visited St. Patrick's before but the last time, he was rather embarrassed to recall, was during his teens. He just hadn't felt the need to since then. _And if God loves me, why does He let things keep going wrong for me?_ _Why did He take both my families away from me? _thought poor Danny.

But…could he have been missing out?

His eyes continued to rove around the transepts of the Cathedral when, suddenly, to his right, their attention was caught by the bronze figure of a man at the front of one of the small altars, carrying a child.

Curious, he rose and made his way towards. As he came near, he saw the sign in front, informing the visitor that this was the altar of Saint Anthony of Padua, Saint Ann and Saint Monica. However, it was the figure of the male Saint Anthony which continued to hold his attention.

Saint Anthony of Padua was one Saint about whom Danny knew something. He was the saint of lost things: lost articles and even lost people. Sister Angelica, a kind but scatty nun at the orphanage where he had spent part of his childhood, regularly used to need to ask Saint Anthony to intercede for her! However, Danny recalled, Saint Anthony had been a wonderful preacher, to the extent that he had been canonised only a year after his death, and been created a Doctor of the Church.

Saint Anthony had only been thirty-six when he had died. _Only four years older_ _than me, and look how much more you achieved in your life_, Danny thought.

He wondered why, apart from the obvious reason, Saint Anthony was so often portrayed with the Child Jesus. All the Saints had carried out their deeds in His name; but, few were ever represented actually holding Him. Saint Anthony was the exception. Why? He wasn't a father. He never had children. He never married. Why show him with the Child Jesus if he never had a family of his own?

_Because it doesn't matter_, replied a voice in his head. _You don't have to be someone's real family to love them as if they were your own._

Danny stood bolt upright. He looked quizzical. What –

_Remember the story of Jesus? When his mother and brothers arrived to see Him? Jesus looked out at the crowd sitting round Him and said, "Here are my mother and brothers. Anyone who does the Will of God is my brother and sister and mother."_

"The Will of God?"

_Love thy God with all thy heart and love thy neighbour as thyself._

" And…?"

_Who loves you like that?_

"Vivian, Jack and Martin."

_Well?_

All of a sudden, it all made sense to Danny.

It didn't matter Vivian, Jack and Martin were not his blood relatives. Because they loved and cared for him unreservedly, chose to do so, loved him for what he was, not what they could get from him. When he gave to them, he also received. The times Vivian had shown him motherly care, the times Jack had given him fatherly advice, and the many, many times Martin had shown him brotherly love.

_I do have a family. I have an uncle, an aunt and a brother._

There was a light at the end of the tunnel, just as the Welsh man had said.

For the first time in many years, Danny knelt and prayed.

Martin waited near the bronze front doors of the Cathedral, by the statue of St. Paul. He looked at his watch; it was nearly quarter past four. He and Danny had agreed to meet back at four. Martin frowned slightly. It wasn't like Danny to be late. Where was he?

At that very moment, the familiar black-haired figure with sticking-out ears appeared from Martin's left, from the direction of the north aisle. However, as his co-worker and friend approached, Martin became aware something had changed. As he came close, Martin could see Danny's face, and he was astounded. Gone was the troubled look, the sad expression…Danny's face was alive, and radiant.

"Where have you been?" Martin asked. "I was starting to get worried."

"Martin, I've been to Confession. And I've been praying."

A feeling of gladness and warmth spread through Martin.

Danny continued, "That priest friend of Jack's in the Bronx– what's his name?"

"Father Walker?"

"Yes. I think I'm going to go and see him."

Martin smiled.

They arrived back home around five o'clock.

"Thanks for today," Danny said.

Martin smiled. "My pleasure."

"We'll have to do it again!"

"Yes. After Washington. We've got that to look forward to in a few weeks."

"Yes. Indeed," Danny nodded. "Who knows what might happen there?"

Martin smiled again. He had hung up his jacket and was about to go out into the kitchen when Danny stopped him.

"Hey…" Danny put his hand into his pocket and took out a small box. Silently, he handed it to Martin, who opened it. Inside was a lapel pin, silver inlaid with blue, featuring a man with a staff carrying a child. Martin recognised it straight away.

"St. Christopher," Martin observed. "Carrier of Christ."

"Yeh – well…" Danny seemed slightly awkward. "In the last few months – you've carried me."

He looked up directly at Martin. Martin just didn't know what to say.

"Thank-you," he finally said simply.

Danny's lips trembled. "Likewise," he whispered.


End file.
